


Until We Meet Again

by queenofkadara



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AND YOU HAVE A LOT OF SEX, Character Study, Cozy conversations and smut with Geralt? YEAHHHHHH, F/M, Follows the general events of The Witcher 3 but the focus here is NOT on the plot, Friends With Benefits, Geralt makes a friend!, Plot? NOOOOO, Smut, THAT FRIEND IS YOU!, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 10:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: Geralt is a traveller. He’s travelled from White Orchard to Skellige to Toussaint and back, and he’s seen things that most people have never seen before.But you’re a traveller, too. And somehow, throughout your travels, you and Geralt always seem to find each other, and in the mostsatisfyingways.***************************In other words: In his search for Ciri, Geralt makes a friend with benefits… and that friend, dear reader, is you.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt/Yennefer are also referenced but are not the focus
Comments: 29
Kudos: 51





	Until We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schoute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schoute/gifts), [Elvesinmyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvesinmyheart/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes before we begin, which you can feel free to skip:  
> \- There are many Geralts, and all are valid: book Geralt, Netflix show Geralt, video game Geralt. The version of Geralt in this fic is based on _The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt_ — i.e. the Geralt to whom I am hopelessly devoted.  
> \- Also, take note: **this not a fic where Geralt falls in love with ‘you’, the reader**. I ship Geralt and Yen, but I also acknowledge that when Yen and Geralt are apart (which seems to be a lot of the time), Geralt has… _needs_. And also has many close lady friends. And enjoys having sex with his equally-willing lady friends. Enter you, dear reader: a soon-to-be equally-willing friend of Geralt.  
> \- The LI/‘reader’ in this fic is written as a cisgender woman, for no other reason than that’s what I am and it’s what I know. If you’re trans or nonbinary, I hope you’ll still enjoy!  
> \- Last but not at all least: this fic is dedicated to [Elbenherzart](https://elbenherzart.tumblr.com/) and [Schoute](https://schoute.tumblr.com/), who supported the shit out of me while I panic-wrote the first chapter and beta-read bits of it for me. I LOVE YOU BOTH SO MUCH. Also, one MILLION kudos for the Geralt art included in this fic, which was painted for me by Schoute!

He breathes hard against your neck. The sweat between you is sticking his scarred chest to yours. You can still feel a delicious twang of pain from his teeth on your nipple, and if there’s a bruise or a print of his teeth on your breast in the morning, you won’t be surprised. 

His pulse is slow as befits a witcher, but as you lie there with his beard tickling your neck and his breath fanning across your skin, his pulse slows even more, and you know he’s really starting to relax.

He rolls off of you then, and his sudden absence from your sated body raises goosebumps on your skin. “Guess I should be going,” he says, and he stands and picks up his trousers.

You study the puckered scars that cross his lithely muscled back. “You can stay,” you say. “I like the company.” 

Geralt pauses while pulling on his shirt. He turns to face you, and he smiles: that rare little smile that always makes you smile in turn. 

He drops the shirt and sits on the bed beside you. His coppery cat’s eyes are crinkled at the corners with crows’ feet and contentment, and your heart flutters. Your inner thighs might be trembling from riding his cock, and the uniquely earthy scent of his sweat and his seed might be infused into your skin, but his smile is what you’ll take away with you when you part in the morning.

*******************

The first time you meet him is in White Orchard. 

You’re at the inn asking Elsa the innkeeper whether she knows of any local jobs for a young woman. You’re not choosy about what the job might be; you’ve been a jill of all trades for years now, a medic this week and a seamstress the next and a deckhand if ever you find yourself on the sea, and if there’s any work to be had in this town, you’ll take it.

As it turns out, Elsa is looking to hire, and that’s how you find yourself serving watered-down Skelligan stout to angry Temerian loyalists when _he_ walks in the door. 

You instantly know who he is. You’ve heard the tales and the ballads of the White Wolf, the rumours and the horror stories, and you’re happy to say you can dispel at least one rumour the second you lay eyes on him. You had heard that his face was hideously scarred and deformed, more like a beast’s fearsome sneer than man’s face; but you’ve also heard quite the opposite, breathless whispers of masculine beauty and battle scars sprinkled over a muscular body, and… well, you can’t confirm anything about his battle scars, but the beauty? Now _that_ wasn’t a lie. 

He’s not alone; he’s with an older man, a man whose hair is as grey as _his_ hair is white, and you try not to stare as they seat themselves at the quietest back corner of the inn. Everyone else is staring, after all, with varying levels of resentment and fear and open curiosity, and you can just imagine how tiresome it must be to get stared at all the time. 

You go about your job, bringing drinks to the patrons and food for those who can afford it, and you wait for the witchers to order something to drink. But when ten minutes go by and they stay in the corner talking quietly and not ordering a thing, the innkeeper starts to get antsy. 

“Taking up a table for no good reason, they are,” Elsa grouses. “Decent folk would buy a pint at least.”

You can understand why she’s complaining. The inn has seen better days – days before Emhyr’s army came marching through – and Elsa clearly needs every crown she can get.

So you take two precious crowns from your own purse and place them on the counter. Elsa raises her eyebrows skeptically, then shrugs and takes your coin and pours two pints of stout. 

You take the stout to the two quietly-talking men at the back of the tavern, and you gently place the drinks on the table. “Welcome to White Orchard,” you say. 

They look up at you, and your heart thumps. Geralt of Rivia is even more handsome up close than you initially thought. More grizzled, too, to be fair; his forehead and lined as well as scarred, and his snowy beard could use a trim. But his catlike eyes are serious and kind as they find your face. 

The older witcher grunts. “Thank you, miss.” He reaches for his coin pouch, but you wave him off.

“It’s on me. On the house, I mean,” you say quickly. 

His eyebrows rise in surprise. Then Geralt shifts slightly and rests one hand on his thigh. “Thanks,” he says. “Nice of you.”

A shiver tracks down your spine. His voice is low and growly, but there’s something almost soothing about it even so. Maybe this is where the rumours come from — the ones saying he can manipulate people’s minds and bend them to his will.

The older witcher clears his throat, and you realize you’ve been staring: the exact thing you did _not_ want to do. Embarrassed, you step back from their table. “I’m — sorry. I’ll leave you in peace,” you say, and you hurry away to get back to your job. 

Geralt and his companion talk quietly for another five minutes or so, and you’re ridiculously pleased when you see them drinking the beer you bought for them. When their drinks are gone, Geralt rises from the table and approaches some of the other patrons, and you continue to casually watch him from the corner of your eye as he talks to them. He doesn’t speak to anyone for long, and eventually he returns to his companion’s table. He picks up his sheath with his swords — two swords, just like in the tales! — and he straps on the swords and heads for the door, and you purposely keep your eyes on the table you’re wiping, just so he knows you’re not staring at him.

But then he pauses beside your table, and he speaks. “Thanks for the drink,” he says. “Better to hang on to your coin, though.” He places four crowns on the table — twice as much as you’d spent on him.

Your heart flips. You look up, but he’s already walking away. 

Touched by his generosity, you pocket the coin and take the next round of orders. But when you return to the bar, Elsa gives you a knowing look. 

“Good on ye,” she says quietly. “But you best not be soliciting in my inn. This is a respectable place, you hear?”

A prickle of humiliation nips the back of your neck — and a bit of indignation. You weren’t trying to solicit anything. You might have _solicited_ in the past when times were especially tight, but you haven’t done that in years, and you wouldn’t do it again if you had any other choice. It might be relatively lucrative, but it’s not worth the discomfort and the danger.

You don’t tell Elsa any of this, though. Instead, you nod and you reassure her that you aren’t ‘soliciting’, and you go about your job, taking orders and carrying drinks and wiping up the spills and messes that the customers leave behind. 

That evening around sunset, when the evening waitresses arrive to take over the nighttime shift, you put on your cloak and you check that your dagger is secure at your hip, and you head out to the herbalist’s hut at the end of the road. Tomira, the herbalist, agreed to take you in for a time in exchange for your assistance: she needs to travel to the east a ways to collect some rarer herbs, and while she’s gone, she’s asked you to tend her garden and sell her wares to any who might need them. 

It’s a short-term arrangement, not likely to last for more than a week or two. But if you make a few good sales, perhaps Tomira’s hospitality might extend long enough for you to save the coin to move on to… where, you’re not sure; you’re never really sure where you’re going to be heading next. But you’re healthy and you’re alive, which is more than many can say in these troubled times, so it’ll do for now. 

You spend a peaceful night at Tomira’s empty hut, making a few sales but mostly reading quietly by the light of the fire in the small but tidy hearth. When the night has grown dark and the fire is burning low, you climb into Tomira’s humble but comfortable bed. Curled under the threadbare knitted blanket and your own threadbare cloak, you close your eyes.

Just as you’re drifting off, you think about _him_ : Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. You think about his handsome frown and his kind amber eyes, his deep and deadpan voice and his selfless offering of four crowns in exchange for your own friendly offering of a drink. 

You lie in bed in the darkness of Tomira’s empty hut thinking about Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the hero and the villain of so many stories you’ve heard over the years… and you wonder if he ever gets lonely, too.

*********************

A couple of days go by. You work at the inn during the day and at Tomira’s hut in the evenings, and while you’re working, you hear people talk. And what they’re talking about these days is Geralt.

The talk is, unsurprisingly, ambivalent. Some people are grumbling that he’s conspiring with the Nilfgaardian army, since he’s been seen at their compound. Some people are praising him for clearing out the ghouls on the battlefields and the drowners in the swamps, while others are complaining about the fact that he demanded coin in exchange for killing the beasts. Others still are just talking for the sake of talking, calling Geralt a freak and making jokes about his mum ploughing a cat to give him those catty peepers, and you just listen to it all and wonder what the _real_ story is. Why is Geralt here, you wonder? What is the famous White Wolf doing in a humble little place like White Orchard? How did his older companion get that wound on his shoulder? Were they fighting a monster on the way here? Did they defeat it? What kind of monster did they fight?

You don’t ask, though, not even when you spot Geralt during his occasional comings and goings from the inn. His expression is always weary, like he’s tired even if the day’s only just begun, and you don’t want to add to his trials by asking him questions. 

As it turns out, you finally do get a chance to ask him some questions, but it’s not at the inn. It’s at Tomira’s hut.

It’s the middle of the afternoon on a day when you don’t have a shift at the inn. You’re in the garden trimming some mistletoe when Geralt comes riding up. 

He slows his mare by your hut and gracefully dismounts. “Greetings,” he says. “Do you–” He breaks off and raises his eyebrows, and his eyes sweep over you from head to toe. “You the herbalist, too?”

He remembers you! Of everyone in the village — no, everyone on the continent, he’s travelled so many places — he remembers you?

You scramble for a reply. “Um, I’m — not the herbalist, just… I’m helping out.”

“An apprentice, then?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Just… helping out.”

He regards you for a second, and you swallow hard, tingly with nerves under his scrutiny. Then he raises an eyebrow. “Won’t find the body of a dead herbalist if I go into your hut, will I?”

 _What?_ you think in horror. “N-no,” you stammer. “Of course not. You — you can go look if you don’t believe me.”

He huffs. “I was kidding. Mostly.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Verbena. Don’t happen to have any, do you?”

He looks a little awkward now, and this surprises you. Why does _he_ look awkward? You’re the odd one who couldn’t really explain how you’re helping the herbalist but you’re not really an apprentice.

You nod and gesture for him to follow you into the hut. “Fresh or as a salve?”

“You have ointment already prepared?” he asks.

You nod again. “I made it this morning. The fresher, the better.” 

His eyebrows rise. “Huh. A jar of salve, then. Thanks.”

You fetch him a small jar of verbena salve. He opens it and sniffs it, and his eyebrows rise higher still. “You really did make it this morning. Verbena was a little stale, though.” He shrugs and reseals the jar. “Should still do the trick.”

You stare at him as he counts some crowns from his coin pouch. He could tell that the herbs were stale but the ointment was fresh? You didn’t realize that a witcher’s sense of smell was quite so keen, but now you feel silly that you didn’t think of it. He’s got a cat’s eyes and a bat’s sense of hearing; why wouldn’t his sense of smell be just as sharp?

He holds out six crowns. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you say, and you take the coin. Then you gesture at the small one-room hut. “No bodies, as you can see.”

He blinks, and you instantly regret the stupid joke. You shouldn’t have said it, you’re just going to make him feel uncomfortable—

He smiles, then, and your heart stops. It’s just a hint of a smile, the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth and a slight deepening of the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, but his whole face suddenly seems brighter and more carefree.

And you find yourself smiling back. You’re smiling at Geralt, a full-lipped foolish smile, and you… you made a joke to the White Wolf, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, and he thought it was amusing enough to smile.

He nods and folds his arms. “No bodies,” he confirms. “Makes for a nice change.”

You give him an odd look. “You’re used to finding bodies inside people’s homes?”

“I’m a witcher,” he says flatly. “Occupational hazard.”

Damn. You should have known that. “Sorry,” you say automatically. “Or… not sorry, I suppose, since I’ve got no bodies.”

He smiles again — that tiny subtle hint of amusement — then takes a step back. “Gotta go,” he says. “Farewell for now.”

You nod and follow him out of the hut. You return to the garden to deal with the abandoned mistletoe, and you watch with some regret as he rides away on his mare. 

********************

The next evening, you’re at the inn working behind the bar when Geralt comes inside. He looks tired as always and dirtier than usual; his hair and beard are starting to show the grime, and you can’t help but feel sorry for him as he trudges up to the bar. 

His eyes meet yours, and when his eyes spark with recognition, you feel absurdly pleased. You smile at him as he approaches. “Skelligan stout?”

He nods and sits at the bar. “Thanks.”

You eye him sympathetically as you pour his drink. “I can set a cauldron to heat some water for a bath if you like.”

“For how much?” he says bluntly.

You wince. It’s a fair question, after all. “Ten crowns.”

He hesitates, then finally shakes his head. “River’ll suit me fine for a wash. Thanks.”

You nod and slide his drink across the bar, and he hands you a crown for the stout. Then he gives you a knowing look. “Been watching us, haven’t you? Me and Vesemir?”

You look at him with a jolt of alarm. “Pardon?”

Geralt lifts the stein. “Skelligan stout. It’s the only drink we’ve ordered since we got here.”

You relax. “Oh. Well, yes. Good serving girls always watch their customers’ habits.” Feeling emboldened by his question, you give him a cheeky smile. “Besides, it’s the only good drink we’ve got.”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t let the Temerians hear you insulting their brews.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” you say.

He huffs again, then takes a gulp of his drink. “Not from around here, I take it?”

You shake your head. Another serving girl comes over with a handful of orders which you swiftly fill while wiping down the bar, and when there’s another little lull, you look at Geralt once more. 

Your tummy does a funny little jolt. Geralt is watching you as you work, more in a nothing-else-to-do kind of way than a truly focused way, but his attention sends a tingle of excitement across your skin nonetheless.

Nervous and pleased that he’s still sitting at the bar, you scramble for something to say. “The, um, verbena salve. It — it did the trick, I hope?” 

He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

You’re confused. “You don’t know?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Haven’t had to use it yet. Never hurts to be prepared, though.”

You smile at this. “True. Well, feel free to come by the hut again if you need anything else.”

He nods, but he’s frowning now in a thoughtful way. You tilt your head. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” he says. “Just curious. You’re not the herbalist, not an apprentice, but you’re helping out. And you’re skilled enough to make herbal remedies on your own.”

You eye him apprehensively, feeling a little guarded now. “Yes…?” 

He leans toward you a bit and lowers his voice so no one else can hear. “You a mage in hiding?”

You gape at him in surprise, then let out a little laugh. “A ma—? No. No, I’m just… someone who has a little skill in a lot of things.”

He studies you for a second more, then nods. “That’s smart,” he says as he lifts his stein to his lips. “Good way to survive.”

At his words, you find yourself relaxing. His words are what you’ve always told yourself, but to hear Geralt of Rivia say so is… validating, somehow.

You nod and continue wiping the bar. “It’s worked out all right for me. Got me from here to Toussaint to Novigrad and back.”

He looks up in surprise. “You’re well-travelled.”

“Not as well as you, from what I’ve heard,” you say.

He grunts in agreement. “That’s probably true.” He takes another gulp of his stout, and you wait hopefully for him to go on. 

Instead, he puts the empty stein down and stands up from his stool. “See ya,” he says, and he steps back from the bar. 

“Wait,” you blurt.

He stops and looks at you quizzically. You bite the inside of your cheek, wishing you hadn’t said anything, but it’s too late now; he’s looking at you and expecting you to talk, so you have no choice.

“I’m… I’ll be staying at the herbalist’s for a while, if you want to stop by,” you say.

His gaze becomes more focused somehow, a little more intense, and you realize how provocative you sound. Your heart twists with nerves, but deep in your abdomen, low and deep between your legs, something else pulses as well — an unfamiliar pulse that you’ve never really felt before, not even when you… solicited in the past. A pulse that feels restless somehow, but not at all unpleasant.

Unnerved by your own body and the intensity of Geralt’s stare, you quickly try to repair your gaffe. “For remedies, I mean. Or, um, for gwent.”

“Gwent?” he says.

“Yes,” you say, a little nervously. “Do you play?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Not well, though, I’m afraid.”

“Then you should definitely come by to play,” you say.

He quirks one eyebrow. “Looking to fleece a poor witcher? Opportunistic of you.”

His tone is humorously dry. Tickled by his humour, you shrug and go back to wiping the bar. “I have to take the opportunities where I find them.”

He smiles faintly – that faint hint of amusement that makes your belly feel like you took a bite of warm soup. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He pats the bar, then heads upstairs to his room.

You smile to yourself as you pour a few more drinks. In all the stories you heard about the White Wolf, how strong and fearsome he is, his heroic feats and his treacherous acts, no one had mentioned how calm he is, or how nice. 

**********************

A few more days go by. You work at the inn, and you see Geralt on occasion as he comes and goes, but he doesn’t stop to chat. He’s often spattered with blood and always tired-looking, and your heart aches a little for him as you note his comings and goings, but you don’t bother him by trying to talk to him again.

In the afternoons and through to the evenings, you work at Tomira’s hut, making simple unguents and tending the garden and selling a few remedies and samples of herbs. But Geralt doesn’t come to buy anything again, and you try not to be disappointed. He must be so busy with killing monsters and… other witchering things, so you don’t take it personally that he doesn’t come by.

Then, late one night, you hear a knock at the door. 

You’re not expecting Geralt. You’re not expecting anyone at all, actually, because you were asleep. But you hear the knock on the door, and when you wake up, you realize that you forgot to extinguish the oil lamp outside the door, so someone must have thought you were still awake and open for business.

You sit up groggily in bed. “Who is it?” you call.

“It’s Geralt the witcher.”

All at once, you’re wide awake, and your heart is thudding in your chest. You scramble out of bed, but before you can say anything else, he speaks through the door again. “Don’t be scared. Not going to hurt you.”

 _Hurt me?_ you think. Why would he think you’d be worried about that? You clumsily light a candle, then hurry to open the door. “Hello,” you say breathlessly. “I didn’t…”

You trail off, taken aback by his appearance. He’s smeared liberally with dirt and blood and he smells like rotten entrails, and he’s holding his left arm close to his body as though he’s guarding his left side. But the most alarming thing is his face. 

The veins in his face are a dark and livid red, standing out so clearly that his skin might as well be transparent. The usual shadows under his eyes are deeper than usual, and his eyes are more catlike than ever, luminescent from the light of your carelessly-lit oil lamp. He looks terribly ill and eerie, and it’s… alarming, to say the least. 

He holds up his right hand as though to reassure you. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Not looking for an invitation inside. Just…” He lifts his eyebrows wryly. “Verbena. Got any more?” 

You close your mouth and nod wordlessly, then hurry to the shelf to fetch another jar of verbena salve. When you return to the door, he’s holding six crowns in his hand. 

He holds out the coin. You ignore him and offer him the jar of salve. “Are you hurt?” you ask. “What happened?”

“Some idiot trying to play knight-errant,” he grumbles. Then he frowns slightly. “Here, take your coin.”

You ignore him again. “Geralt, are you hurt?”

He shrugs. “Not much,” he says. 

You stare at him. He’s filthy and slouching and he looks incredibly sick, and _this_ is his idea of being ‘not much’ hurt? 

You step back and usher for him to come inside. “Let me help you with your injuries.”

He shakes his head. “No need. I can take care of it myself.”

“Please,” you insist. “Come inside and let me help you.” 

His frown deepens, but you stare insistently at him and pray that he’ll stay. You’d feel terrible if he tried to get back to the main village and collapsed before he got there.

To your surprise, he actually capitulates, though not without a heavy sigh. “All right,” he says, and he steps into the hut. “Thank you.” 

You relax, then hold your breath as a wave of his stench hits you. “Where are you hurt?” you ask. 

“Left side,” he says. “Alghoul almost got me.” 

An alghoul? Horrified, you reach for his left side, but he takes a step back. “Actually, give me a minute,” he says. “No need to get your hands filthy, too.” He steps out of the hut once more.

You follow him, worried that he’s changed his mind and will try to leave, especially when he walks over to his mare. But he doesn’t try to leave; instead, he takes off his armoured gloves and his sheath with his two swords. He hangs the swords on a strap on the mare’s saddle, then starts removing his armour. 

Your belly flips. He’s — he’s taking off his armour? Of course he’s taking off his armour, he’s got an injury that you offered to help him tend. How else are you supposed to tend it if you can’t see it?

You keep your face as neutral as you can while you watch him shedding his armour. A few minutes later, his torso is bare except for the wolf’s-head medallion around his neck, and your heart is racing. 

_Battle scars,_ you think. His entire chest and back, his arms… he’s absolutely covered in scars. Most of them look like claw marks, but they’re bigger and longer than any claws on any animal you’ve ever seen. There's an odd astral-shaped scar on his right pec, and you can’t even imagine how _that_ happened. But underneath the scars, his body is… it’s exactly as the most flattering stories told. Packed with lean muscle, his arms decorated with veins that flow from his bulging biceps down his forearms to decorate the backs of his hands, and the scars on his torso just serve to highlight the shape of his abs and the ropes of muscle that run from his hips down into his trousers… 

He really is beautiful, despite the scars and the terrifying lividity of his veins beneath his pale skin. Or maybe he’s beautiful _because_ of the scars, this brutal evidence of how many monsters he’s removed from the world. Your heart is thrumming, and that unusual restless feeling between your legs is back, almost like your heart is beating at the apex of your thighs as well as in your chest.

You stand there paralyzed, staring at Geralt’s half-naked body and wondering, wondering if… if he would— 

“The injury’s up here,” he says.

You snap your eyes from his abs to his face. “Pardon?”

“Where I got injured,” he says. “It’s here.” He lifts his left arm partway and gestures at the left side of his ribs.

Oh no, his voice is dry with humour once more. Does that mean he knows what you were thinking? If he can manipulate people’s minds, does that mean he can read their minds, too? What if he was reading yours?

Humiliated, you drop your eyes to his left ribs, and a jolt of genuine alarm distracts you from the buzzing feeling between your legs. There’s no wound and no blood, but there’s a huge purpling bruise spanning his left side, and you’re suddenly worried that perhaps he’s broken some of his ribs.

Concerned, you step closer to him. “Is your breathing all right?” you ask.

He nods. “Hurts a little, but it’s not bad.” 

You frown at him, then step closer still and lean your ear toward his chest. “Breathe in deeply. Let me hear.”

He does as you’ve told him. His chest rises toward your cheek, and you try hard not to notice the heat rolling off of his skin. 

You listen for a moment as he breathes, then lean away and look up at his face. “I don’t hear any wheezing or wet sounds. You probably just bruised your ribs, nothing broken.” 

“Figured that,” he says. “No blood, no broken skin that you can see?” 

“No,” you say. “But Geralt, why… you look sick,” you say in a small voice. “Your veins are all, um… why are they—?”

“Poison,” he says.

You gape at him with fresh horror. “ _Poison?_ ”

“Yeah,” he says. “In a way. Witcher potions. Which reminds me…” He turns back to his mare and rifles in a saddlebag, and you’re torn between staring at the shifting of muscles in his back and worrying about the way he’s guarding his bruised left side as he searches his saddlebags. 

He finally sighs. “Shit,” he mutters, and he turns to you with a wry expression. “Don’t suppose I can borrow your cauldron?”

“Of course,” you say. “Why…?”

“Need to brew something to leech the poison,” he explains. 

“Oh,” you say. “Of course, there’s — there’s a second cauldron over a firepit in the back. And, um, there’s a tub, if you…” You trail off with a wince. You feel a little bad mentioning it, but the smell of monster guts really is overpowering.

He scoffs. “I get it. And thanks. Let me know what I owe you.” He turns back to his mare and starts going through her saddlebags once more.

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say.

He turns and looks askance at you, and you give him a chiding look. “Please, Geralt. It’s nothing. Just a bath and a cauldron. Not even a warm bath, unfortunately.”

“There’s the verbena, though,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say.

He skeptically lifts one eyebrow. “Sure your employer would agree with this?”

“She’s not here,” you point out. “But _you_ are, and you don’t look very well.”

He smiles faintly. “You should see me on a bad day,” he says. He takes a leather satchel and a bundle of clothes from one of his saddlebags, then pats his mare affectionately before carrying his belongings around to the back of the hut, and you follow him.

You prepare the bath for him, pouring pails of water from one of the rain barrels into the tub while he lays out his potion-making things by the firepit and sets a fire. When the tub is just full enough for a bath, you replace the pail by the rain barrels, then watch curiously as he crumbles some dried honeysuckle into the cauldron. 

“Can I watch?” you ask.

He glances at you. “Watch what?”

You gesture at the cauldron. “Your brewing. I might learn something.” You frown slightly. “What did you think I meant, other than the brewing?”

He shoots a glance at the tub, and you realize with a shock that he thought you wanted to watch him in the bath. 

Your gut snarls with embarrassment – especially since the idea of watching Geralt in the bath is more appealing than you can possibly admit. “Oh. No,” you stammer. “I – I meant the brewing. If you want to bathe first, I’ll leave you alone–”

“Easy,” he says. “Don’t panic.”

You close your mouth. His tone is soothing, but it somehow just worsens the tingling feeling between your legs, which makes you even more unnerved — so unnerved that you’re wondering if maybe you should just go back into the hut and leave him to it.

He studies you for a moment, then shrugs. “No harm in watching what I’m doing.” He jerks his head at a flat tree stump beside him. 

You eye him cautiously for a moment, then sit gingerly on the tree stump. You arrange the folds of your nightdress so they’re not touching the dirt, then peer curiously into his cauldron, trying to act like you’re not eyeing his half-naked body from the corner of your eye. 

“What are you making?” you ask.

“Antidote,” he says. “It’s called ‘white honey’. Helps clear potions from the blood.” He gives you a warning look. “Don’t try to make this yourself, though. This stuff’ll help me, but it’ll poison you.”

“I understand,” you say.

He nods, then goes back to his work, and you watch him appreciatively – not just for the way his muscles flex beneath his pale skin as he works, but for the surety of his movements as he makes his antidote. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and by the time the cauldron is simmering, you can openly admit that he’s better at this than you.

He adjusts the wood under the cauldron so the heat is less direct, then leans his elbows on his knees — then he winces slightly and straightens, as though the act of leaning forward has smarted his ribs. 

You watch him worriedly. “Geralt, what happened tonight?”

He looks at you. The firelight is reflecting off of his irises, giving him an oddly surreal appearance. 

Then he sighs and looks at the cauldron. “I was fighting a nightwraith. Almost finished it off when I heard some screaming. Young couple was, uh, occupied in the woods nearby. Didn’t notice the dead deer that was swarmed with ghouls and a couple alghouls to boot.” He clicks his tongue in disgust, then runs a hand over his dirty hair. “Ran to help ‘em, and the nightwraith came with me.”

“Oh gods,” you say in a small voice.

Geralt grunts. “My own fault. Should’ve finished it off before trying to play the hero.” He scoffs. “Vesemir would have something to say about it if he’d seen.”

“But you killed the nightwraith, right?” you ask. “And the ghouls and the alghouls?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The girl got hurt, though. Scratched by a ghoul.” He clicks his tongue. “Should be okay if she uses your salve, though.”

“My…?” Suddenly you understand. “You gave her the verbena salve I sold you the other day?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I just hope it’s still effective. Smelled decent, but you never know.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a slur on my salve-making skills?”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Didn’t mean it to be. Sorry.”

You smile. “I’m just teasing.”

His eyebrows rise a bit higher. Then he leans forward and stirs the contents of the cauldron. “Mhm. In that case, you should use fresher verbena next time.”

This time, you recognize the dry twist of humour in his voice. You smile at him, feeling foolishly pleased that he’s teasing you. 

He glances at you, and the luminous glow of his eyes sends a tingle down your spine. Feeling suddenly shy, you swallow hard. “So the, um… the bruise. You said it was an alghoul?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he says. “The girl’s gallant paramour tried to help me fight the beasts.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and you can’t help but smile.

“He wasn’t very helpful, I take it?” you say.

Geralt grunts. “Idiot just got in my way. Had to shove him aside before he took a hit — took the hit myself instead.” He shakes his head and stirs the contents of the cauldron again. “Weird to see that kind of chivalry in the north.”

You hum in agreement. “That’s true. It’s commonplace in Toussaint, but not really here. Toussaint is funny that way.”

He looks at you once more. “Yeah. Interesting place, Toussaint.”

“It is,” you agree. “And I, um, I can see what you meant about him trying to be like a knight-errant.”

Geralt _harrumph_ s. “‘Errant’ for sure. ‘Knight’, not so much.” He lifts the ladle to his lips and blows, then sips a bit of his potion, and you watch as his eyes narrow thoughtfully.

He dips the ladle back into the cauldron, then pats his knees and stands. “Well. This needs to simmer for a while, so I’ll take that bath now.” 

Your heart jumps into your throat. He raises his eyebrows and jerks a thumb at the tub. “You want to head back inside while I do this, or…?”

 _No,_ you think. “Yes,” you say out loud. “I’ll — you can — privacy.” You stand up hastily and scurry toward the front of the hut, almost tripping over the hem of your nightdress as you go. 

“Wait a second,” he calls.

Your pulse ratchets higher still, and you turn to face him. “Yes?”

He tilts his head. “What’s your name?”

You relax slightly and introduce yourself, and he nods. “Nice to officially meet you. I’m… well.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You know who I am, obviously.”

He seems almost bashful. Charmed by his slightly awkward manners, you smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He bows his head politely, then starts tugging at the laces of his trousers.

A peculiar flush of heat fans through your body from your scalp down to your toes. You hastily turn away from him, then hurry into the hut and close the door.

You plop down to sit in one of the two wooden chairs at the hut’s small table. You rub your chest, willing your racing heart to slow, but it’s fluttering in your chest like a caged bird. You close your eyes and breathe slowly to try and calm yourself, but it’s no good: with your eyes closed, your imagination just seems all the clearer, and the pictures painting themselves on your closed eyelids are doing nothing to calm you, because all you can think about is Geralt. All you can see is Geralt’s torso baring itself bit by bit as he takes off his armour, his scars and his bunching muscles, the delicacy in his big witcher’s hands as he peels mandrake roots with the edge of his knife and crumbles dried herbs into the cauldron and reaches down to loosen the laces of his trousers…

Your heart thumps. He’s just out back, just behind the hut, unlacing his trousers to bare his hard and scar-laced body so he can use the tub you filled for him. Then he’ll be washing that hard and scar-laced body, running his big sword-wielding hands over his skin to rinse away the dirt and blood — his naked body, completely naked, no clothes, no trousers, no smalls, just _him_ … 

You shift uncomfortably on your chair. The tingling between your legs is becoming more of a throbbing feeling, and it’s starting to overwhelm you. 

You know what this feeling is. You’ve heard other women whisper about this before when you worked in noble homes, and you’ve read about this on the rare occasions when you managed to read a couple of chapters of a smutty novel or two. But it’s one thing to hear about it or to read about it, and another thing altogether to _feel_ this way. You’ve never had this feeling before about any man you’ve ever met, and certainly not about the men you bedded in the past for coin. 

But Geralt isn’t some leery-eyed customer with a pouch of coin, and you’re not interested in selling anything to him. He’s kind and brave and serious with a delightful hint of snark, and you… you _want_ him.

You want Geralt. You desire him. Your groin is pulsing in time with your heart, and there’s a faint and needy sort of ache in your chest, an ache that makes you lightheaded as you sit at the table trying to breathe normally, and you don’t know what to do about it.

You sit there for a while longer, tortured by the edgy feeling of almost-pleasure that’s buzzing through your body. Then, unable to take it anymore, you stand and stoke the fire in the hearth, figuring you might as well make some herbal remedies since you’re awake. 

You pad over to Tomira’s shelves to fetch ingredients for a simple water-based solvent, and as you move back and forth in the small hut, you try to ignore the distracting stickiness between your legs. You’re just bringing the solvent to a simmer when you hear a knock at the door. 

You eagerly open the door to find Geralt standing there. He’s clean and groomed, dressed in clean trousers with his damp white hair pulled back in a loose half-ponytail, and best of all, he looks healthy once more. His pale skin is no longer a spiderweb of livid scarlet veins, and the dark circles under his eyes are… not gone, but just dark to a normal degree, like he needs a good night’s sleep. 

You beam at him. “How do you feel? You look much better.” 

“I feel much better, thanks,” he says. “Left the water in the tub. Figured you could use it to water the garden.”

“Yes, that’s great,” you say. “And — and your bruise? Does it still hurt?” Your eyes drop to his left-side ribs, and you feel a jolt of surprise: the bruise is gone.

You stare at the left side of his ribs. Is his bruise really gone, or is it just the dim lighting in the hut that’s playing with your eyes?

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Your — the bruise,” you say blankly. “Is it gone?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Completely gone?” you say with rising disbelief. “In twenty minutes?”

“More like an hour,” he says. “Took me a while to get from the woods back here.”

You stare at him. It took just one hour for a huge bruise across his left ribs to completely disappear?

He lifts one eyebrow. “Don’t believe me, do you?”

“It’s not that,” you say quickly. “It’s… it’s just a little unbelievable.”

He huffs, then lifts his left arm partway and turns his left side toward you. “Proof for the skeptical lady.”

You smirk chidingly at him, then step a little closer and peer at his ribs. Sure enough, the bruise is completely gone — not even a hint of yellowing to his alabaster-pale skin to show that the bruise had ever even been there.

Fascinated, you reach out to feel his unbruised skin. Then you pull your hand back at the last second before your fingers can touch him. Not that you don’t _want_ to touch him – you do, you _really_ do – but he didn’t say you could touch him, and you… gods, you feel like a mess. 

You swallow hard. “That’s incredible.”

He shrugs and lowers his arm. “Part of the job.”

You nod an acknowledgement, feeling rather awed. This is another rumour confirmed, then: witchers really do heal more quickly than the average person — much more quickly, if Geralt is anything to go by. But if that’s the case, why does he have so many scars?

Your eyes trace curiously over his bare chest and abs. Then you realize that you’ve been staring openly at him for a few long seconds, and that you’re barely standing a few inches away from his half-nude body. 

You tear your gaze back up to his face, and your belly swoops with nerves. His face is serious as usual, but there’s something slightly expectant about the tilt of his eyebrows, and his eyes are so… _warm._ They’re golden and glowing and warm, and they’re making _you_ feel warm as well, and this both thrills and confuses you: is his gaze so warm because of you, or because his witcher’s eyes are reflecting the fire? Is he just looking at you, or is he _looking_ at you? 

He continues to stare at you, pinning you in place with the intensity of his brilliant amber eyes, and a buzzy feeling ripples through your limbs. Suddenly you’re throbbing again, your heart pounding relentlessly between your legs, and you stare wordlessly at him, paralyzed by the way you feel and the way he’s looking at you and the fact that he’s big and clean and half-naked while you’re wearing only a thin nightdress… 

You stare silently at him, tongue-tied and turned on and terrified — not terrified of _him_ , but terrified because you don’t know what to do next. What happens now? What are you meant to do? Should you just ask him to stay? If he does stay, will he satisfy this restless feeling that’s roiling deep in your belly, or will he do what your paying customers did in the past and just spend himself and leave? 

“I should get going,” he says.

Your stomach drops. He’s leaving? But you don’t want him to leave. 

Before you can say anything, he speaks again. “Unless you’d like me to stay.”

His voice is pitched a little lower now, just a little bit suggestive, and now you know for sure: that warmth in his eyes – no, not just eyes, but his whole rugged handsome face: that warmth is for you. 

You shift your weight restlessly, excited and anxious in equal parts. You absolutely want him to stay, you absolutely do, but you were too awkward and unsure of yourself to say so, and — how did he know that he should offer to stay?

“Can witchers read minds?” you say.

He tilts his head knowingly. “Afraid I’m reading yours?”

“Not afraid,” you say. “Just… curious.”

He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “If I was reading your mind, what would I see?”

 _You,_ you think. If Geralt could read your mind, he would be seeing himself: his handsome, half-naked self. No, not half-naked, but fully naked so you can see if his legs are as adorned with scars as his arms, whether his ass is as tight and muscular as it looks in his fitted trousers, whether the generous bulge of his groin is as large as it seems… 

A throb of pure _want_ rushes through your body. You stare at him wordlessly, both tempted and embarrassed by the idea of telling him what’s really on your mind.

He smiles – a small smile, but a smile that makes its way up to his eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Cat got your tongue?”

He’s teasing you. You’re standing here practically vibrating with desire, and he’s _teasing_ you?

Feeling slightly belligerent now, you lift your chin. “I thought you were a wolf, not a cat.”

His eyebrows jump up. Then he laughs. 

It’s a brief laugh, a husky little roll of mirth that’s more a chuckle than a real laugh, but it’s enough to fill your belly with butterflies. You grin at him, thrilled and giddy at the sound of his amusement. Then he leans against the door jamb and crosses his arms. “To answer your question, no. Witchers can’t read minds.” He tilts his head. “But I _can_ hear your heartbeat.”

You blink. “You can?”

He nods. “Pulse is racing,” he says. “Frantic, almost, like you’re excited or afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say boldly. 

He nods again. “I can tell that, too.”

You stare at him with rising surprise. “How?”

He opens his mouth as though to speak, then hesitates. His eyes narrow slightly like he’s thinking before he speaks, and you stand there with rising impatience for him to answer. 

His eyes are steady on your face when he finally replies. “I can smell you.”

Your belly jolts with alarm. “ _What?_ ”

“I can smell you,” he says quietly. Then, deliberately, he drops his gaze from your face to your groin.

Your body’s reaction is instantaneous — and confusing. The tingling eagerness between your legs throbs hotly, almost like your body is aware of his gaze and clamouring for his attention, but your gut is knotted with embarrassment. 

“Oh,” you say faintly. “Oh. Oh g-gods. That’s, um…”

He holds his hands up in a benign gesture. “Easy, now. Don’t panic.” 

He’s using that soothing voice again, the sort of low and gentle voice he might use to calm a spooked horse. But when he talks like this, it just excites you more, which makes you even more embarrassed. If he can _smell_ you, then he must know exactly what you’re thinking and feeling without you even saying a word, and — oh gods, this is so humiliating. 

You press your knees together, almost as though this could help you keep your carnal scent to yourself — a stupid notion, of course — and Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Want me to leave?” he says.

“No,” you blurt. You might not know much, what to say next or what to do about this incredibly distracting pulse of need that’s scratching at the inside of your skin, but you do know this: you do _not_ want Geralt of Rivia to walk out that door. 

There’s only one thing for it, then. You gulp in a breath of air, then let it out in a rush of words: “I want you to stay.” 

Geralt nods. Then, very slowly as though he’s trying not to alarm you, he steps away from the door jamb and closes the door.

He turns to face you, and you stare at him with a dizzying degree of excitement. The hut is small and dim, lit by a single candle and the flickering fire in the hearth. In the intimate half-light of the dancing flames, Geralt’s bulk only makes the space seem smaller, like he’s very near to you even though he’s barely moved, and you can’t believe this is happening. You’re standing here, and Geralt of Rivia is standing right there in front of you with the firelight casting shadows across the dips and lines of his muscular body, and you cannot believe that he is here. When the White Wolf walked into the inn just over a week ago now, you would never have believed that you would end up here with him, closed in this cozy and intimate one-room hut, and that he would be looking at you this way.

He takes a step closer to you, then another. The floorboards creak under his booted feet, breaking the silence and making your excitement ratchet higher with his every step. He steps closer, closer still, so close; and now he’s right in front of you, and his body is _so close_ and — and — oh god, he’s lifting his hand and reaching for you. 

He skims his knuckle along your jawline, and you stop breathing. His touch is gentle and brief, like the smallest caress, but his knuckles are warm and the gesture was kind, and — oh gods, Melitele and Lebioda and Freya save you, you can’t breathe.

He lowers his hand. “Is this your first time?” he asks.

You swallow hard. “No,” you say. “Is that a problem?” 

“Not at all,” he says. “Surprised, that’s all. You seem, uh, innocent.”

You scoff a little at this. If he only knew of the half-dozen men whose coin had kept you fed a few years back. “I’m not innocent,” you say.

His gaze sharpens a little at this, and a fresh spike of excitement blooms between your legs. The change in his expression is subtle, a little tilt of his head and a curl to the corners of his lips, but the way he’s looking at you now is undeniably sensual.

He studies your face for a moment, and you stare breathlessly back at him, wanting him to do something: to touch you, to kiss you, to rip off your nightdress or his trousers, _something._

Then he does the opposite of all that: he leans back against the table and folds his arms. “Just how not-innocent are we talking?” he says.

His voice is warm with ribald humour, and this relaxes you a bit. You give him a chiding look, and he lifts his eyebrows expectantly. 

_Cheeky,_ you think. Geralt wants to know how not-innocent you are? Then you suppose you’ll just have to show him.

Before you can think about it, before you can dither any more and get too mired in your thoughts, you gather the fabric of your nightdress in your hands and pull it over your head. 

Your naked skin puckers with goosebumps as you bare it to the open air. You drop the nightdress on the bed, and with a dizzying feeling of this-is-too-good-to-be-real, you look at Geralt once more.

Your heart thumps. He’s smiling at you, a real full-lipped smile this time, and his gaze is roguish as it sweeps over your skin. His eyes trace slowly over your puckered nipples and your belly and down to the apex of your thighs, and when his gaze pauses on the patch of hair between your legs, you shift a little awkwardly; you can feel the slippery wetness that’s escaped your womanly folds to smear the inner margins of your thighs, the source of the scent he must be detecting with his heightened senses, and you can only hope the scent isn’t putting him off.

He eyes your pussy for a long moment, then looks you in the eye once more. “Heart’s really racing now,” he says. “Sure you’re not scared?” He pushes away from the table and takes a step toward you.

Your body thrills as he draws close. “A little nervous,” you admit. “But I’m not scared.”

He steps closer — so close that you can feel the warmth of his skin. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. “Won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” Then he places his hands on your hips. 

Your breath stalls. His hands, his warm callused hands: they’re sliding around to the small of your back in a slow caress. You try to breathe as his hands move lower, his palms splaying hotly on your bottom, but the firm caress of his roughened palms on your skin is sending a fresh spill of goosebumps down your spine— 

He suddenly pulls you flush to his chest. His hands are firm on your ass and the friction of his trousers against your thighs makes you acutely aware of just how naked you are, and there against your belly is a hard ridge — the thick hard ridge between Geralt’s legs...

His cock. His cock is pressing into your belly. It’s pressing into your belly through his trousers, his unnecessary obstructive trousers that you _really_ wish he wasn’t wearing. 

Your lips pop open, and a little sound comes out — a high-pitched breathy little sound, a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before, but you’re not even embarrassed about it; you’re too preoccupied, too busy arching your back to press closer to him and pressing your palms into the hardness of his chest, his hard muscled chest that’s veiled by his tender scarred skin...

He tilts his head toward you, and his beard tickles your cheekbone as he murmurs in your ear. “Wanna help me get these trousers off?”

You nod eagerly and reach down to pull at his laces. He waits patiently as your trembling fingers fight with the knots, and by the time you finally unlace his fucking trousers, you’re panting with impatience. 

You recklessly pull open his trousers, and your heart slams itself against your ribs. His cock is rising hard and thick from his trousers, and there’s a beautiful vein running along the length of his shaft, and as you stare at his cock, you’re seized by the sudden conviction that tonight, Geralt will be giving you something you never got with your paying partners in the past. 

You run your fingers along the path of that lovely vein. Geralt squeezes your ass and _growls_ : actually growls, a little purr of sound deep in his throat, and the feral little sound makes you suddenly desperate. 

You wrap your fingers around his cock and splay your free hand on his torso, wanting this and wanting _him_ : his playful humour and his growly voice and his warm hard body, his cock and his callused hands that are carefully caressing your bottom. You wiggle restlessly in his grip and give him a pleading look. “Geralt, can we—”

He cuts you off with a kiss. One of his hands rises to cradle your cheek — no, not your cheek, but the side of your neck, and his lips are coaxing yours open and his tongue — his tongue, oh gods: he’s stroking your tongue with his, and for some reason, this is making you absolutely and maddeningly aroused.

You whimper into his mouth and slide your fist along his cock, and he breaks the kiss with a groan. Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet. 

You hastily grip his shoulders for balance. He picked you up so effortlessly, like your weight doesn’t mean a thing, and now he’s laying you back on the bed and standing back to take off his boots and his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips off his clothes. On the one hand, his naked body is as gorgeous as you hoped: sculpted butt, scars criss-crossing his thighs, that beautiful cock rising proudly from its nest of snowy-white hair. On the other hand, you know what it means when a man starts stripping off his clothes, and you weren’t quite ready for this tryst with Geralt to be wrapped up so soon.

He kicks aside his clothes, then crawls onto the bed and pushes your legs apart, and you hold your breath as you wait for him to enter you. But to your surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he rests his callused hands on your knees and holds your thighs apart, and he stares at your sex. 

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough. You’re naked and wet and willing, and Geralt is naked and hard and — oh gods, is that a drop of seed trailing from the tip of his cock? 

You twist your hips restlessly, then lift them off the bed. “Geralt, please…”

His eyes finally find your face, and he smiles. “Sorry,” he says. “Just admiring the view.” He stretches out over you, planting his palms on the mattress on either side of your head, and you stare breathlessly at him, excited by his muscular arms penning you in and his broad shoulders looming over you in such a basely dominant way. 

Then he lowers his hips and slides his length through your wetness.

You jolt and gasp. He’s not inside of you, not entering you, but he’s rocking his hips slowly and sliding his length through the slippery moisture between your legs, and the feeling of his cock stroking your flesh is both a pleasure and a tease: it feels good, so good, but it’s making you feel needy and achy in your core, and the more he pumps himself through your slickness, the more convinced you are that his cock is going to soothe you in a way that you’ve never felt before. 

You whimper and clutch his wrists and lift your hips to meet his cock. He hisses through his teeth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant. 

Geralt huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” he says. He pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear, then lowers his lips to yours in a kiss. 

You part your lips instantly, wanting him to lick your tongue again like he did before, and he immediately obliges: his lips seal over yours and his tongue twines sinuously with yours, and you can taste a slightly-sweet and herbal taste on his tongue — a hint of white honey, perhaps.

He kisses you and slides his cock through your folds, then leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels from your jaw to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft for such a rough and rugged-looking man, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you lightheaded with pleasure and disbelief. You honestly didn’t expect him to take his time this way, like he’s really enjoying the feeling of your naked body splayed beneath him, and why would you expect him to? This has never been your experience before.

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath is wafting over your breast, making your nipples tingle with anticipation, and when Geralt’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. 

He shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed and kisses your breast, and you twist your hips and pet his shoulders eagerly. His cock isn’t stroking your folds anymore, but his mouth is on your breast instead, like one kind of torturous pleasure has been traded for another, and you love every bit of it and you want so much _more_. He’s tugging your nipple with his lips and lapping at the little peak with his tongue, and you’re stunned and dazed at how his careful attention to this one specific part of your body can make you feel so unbelievably good. 

He runs his thumb over your other nipple, and you strain toward his callused hand. Then he’s licking _that_ nipple, and now he’s taking your nipple in his mouth and suckling it firmly, oh, _oh gods_ — 

A sob leaves your throat. It’s not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise that left your throat without your permission because you’re so damned overwhelmed. It just feels so good, his mouth and his fingers and the way he’s exploring your body — it feels so fucking good, and he hasn’t even put his cock inside of you yet. 

He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face. “What’s the matter?” you ask. 

“Nothing,” he says. “The opposite, actually. This is nice. Been a while for you, huh?”

He’s right; it’s been years since you bedded anyone. But how does he know? Is it because you’re doing something wrong?

“How can you tell?” you ask, feeling a little self-conscious now. 

“You’re… reactive,” he says quietly. He palms your breast and squeezes gently, and you arch and gasp at the perfect roughness of his palm against your skin.

“Like that,” he says huskily. “Makes me feel like I’m doing a pretty good job.”

“Mm,” you moan. Truthfully, you’re not interested in talking anymore; you have nothing worthwhile to say, not when your whole mind is occupied by the way Geralt’s hands and his tongue and his surprisingly-soft lips are making you feel. And now those surprisingly-soft lips are moving down, moving from your sternum down toward your belly…

He shuffles lower on the bed and places a sweet open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth is drifting lower now, his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel, and you’re confused by what he’s doing — why is he kissing your belly? Why is he — oh gods, oh fuck, he’s pushing your thighs apart and kissing your inner thigh, and you don’t know what’s happening, you don’t know why he’s doing this and you don’t know why it feels like your heart is pounding between your legs and stealing your ability to think— 

Geralt places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure. 

He places another firm wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips. Geralt hums with approval, a smug half-growly little hum, and then he licks you.

An unfamiliar shock of pleasure makes you flinch. You gasp and grab his hair on instinct, and he lifts his face and looks you in the eye. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-no,” you moan. “Not — not at all. I just — it feels—” You break off, overwhelmed by the exquisite feeling that’s pulsing in your pussy. 

He raises his eyebrows slightly, and you struggle to find words. “Why does it feel like that?” you ask.

“What do you mean?” he says. “What’s it feel like?”

“It feels like… it feels amazing,” you whimper.

He lifts his head and gives you a careful look. Then his face blanks with comprehension. “Never had a man go down on you before, have you?”

You shake your head. “I… I didn’t know men did this.”

His eyebrows leap up, and a slow smile lifts his lips. Feeling self-conscious again, you fold your arms to hide your breasts. “What?”

“I thought you said you weren’t innocent,” he says.

“I’m not!” you say defensively. “I’m — I’ve bedded men. But they weren’t… it wasn’t like this.”

He frowns slightly. Then his face softens with understanding. “Needed the coin?”

“Yes,” you say. “And they weren’t paying me for… to do what you’re doing.”

Geralt nods slowly. “Looks like I’ve got a lot to make up for, then.” He dips his head down and licks you again.

You gasp and shudder. It feels like his tongue is finding the source of the tingling excitement that’s been torturing your for days, like he’s soothing and stimulating that exact place on your body that’s been making you feel so unbalanced and aroused when Geralt is around, and his tongue is fostering an unfamiliar but incredible feeling of pressure building between your legs. 

You gasp in a breath, then realize that you hadn’t been breathing at all. Then Geralt lifts his head to look you in the eye. 

“Relax,” he croons. He smoothes his palm over your belly and laps at your pussy, slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue — fuck, _gods_ , it feels so good, so _good_ , how does this feel so fucking good? It’s just his tongue, just his lips kissing your most secret parts and his tongue caressing this intense spot between your legs, and it seems insane that a mouth can be making you feel so incredibly good, but it’s Geralt’s mouth on your sex and Geralt’s big callused palm resting on your belly as though to soothe you, and the pressure is swelling and building in your abdomen and your thighs and your sex and it feels so good, why does it feel so good why why what is this feeling _oh gods_ — 

Your pussy is suddenly throbbing. Pleasure is slamming in waves through your body like a vicious Skelligan wave, making your calves twitch and your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise is leaving your throat again. Overwhelmed, enraptured, you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore.

You pull on his hair to stop him. “Geralt,” you whimper. 

He lifts his face and wipes his mouth on his hand, then sit back on his knees. “Feeling good?” he asks. “Sounds like you’re feeling good.”

He’s smirking, and his voice is warm with humour. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing humour in his face, you spread your knees wide. 

His gaze drops between your legs, exactly as you’d hoped it would, and his expression darkens with interest. He places his hands on your knees and strokes your thighs. “You ready for me?” he says. “Looks like you are.”

His voice is low and unbearably erotic, and his cock is standing proud and tall, and you _want_ that cock inside of you. You wanted it before he went down on you, wanted it when he was pumping it through your slickness, but _now_ you want him even more: to fill you and soothe this aching need in your core, and the longer he stares at you with that smug little smile, the more reckless and bold you feel. 

You lift your hips from the bed. “Fuck me,” you command. 

A smile flashes across his face. “Gladly,” he says. He grabs your hips and pulls you closer to his kneeling body, then rubs his cock through the slickness between your legs, and you whimper and shift your hips to meet him; it feels even better than before, and you don’t know if it’s because you’re wetter or because your body is still vibrating from the bursting of pleasure that he coaxed from you with his mouth, but you want him more desperately than ever and that want is only getting worse the more he teases you—

He grips his cock and slides inside of you. He’s — gods, fuck, he’s inside you, he’s filling you, and it — it’s not uncomfortable at all. It feels _good_ , like he’s stretching and stroking muscles inside of you that you didn’t know could be stretched or stroked, and you whimper shamelessly at how wonderful it feels.

“Ah,” he groans. He grinds his hips against you, drawing more little mewling sounds from your throat, then slowly pulls out of you only to thrust back inside.

You moan loudly, and Geralt’s hands tighten on your hips. “Fuck,” he gasps, and he thrusts into you again, then again and again, and you stare shamelessly at his muscled chest as he fucks you. His hips are slamming into yours in a hard and even rhythm, and the muscles of his lean packed abs are flexing and shifting in time with the undulating roll of his hips. His teeth are bared like the wolf he’s named for, and his strong callused fingers are digging into your hips, and you have never seen anything so erotic. 

He groans, a perfect animalistic sound of pleasure, then places one hand flat on your belly as he continues to plough you. You reach down to grab his hand, and he lifts his face to look you in the eye. 

His eyes are incandescent with desire and fireglow. He looks powerful and ethereal, like some kind of mythical hero from a romance book, and you’re struck once again by that surreal sense of disbelief that this is happening to _you_. This is you lying on this bed, flat on your back while this beautiful witcher of legend is filling you with his cock, and in this moment of pleasure-infused ecstasy, you’re suddenly struck with the notion that this really might be the best thing that has ever happened to you.

He squeezes your hand. “You all right?”

His question is genuine and kind. It reminds you of who Geralt really is, that he’s not some inaccessible hero but a humble and rather introverted man, and for some reason, this makes you even more desperate for him.

You nod frantically and clutch his fingers. “Don’t stop,” you gasp.

He huffs in amusement. “Wasn’t planning to,” he says, and he fucks you even harder.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, striking a place deep inside of your body that you could _swear_ no man has ever found before, and he’s still holding your hand while his other hand grips your hip, and your breathing is loud and so is his and his hand is tightening on your fingers—

He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained-sounding groan. He shudders, then pounds into you _hard_ , twice, three times, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw is clenched and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it, just as much as you like the feral sounds he’s making as he shudders in completion. 

A few long, heart-pounding seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs heavily and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, and he flops forward to pin you between his arms. 

He smells like herbs and honey and sweat, a sweet combination of clean and manly. He’s gazing at you with that warm look on his face, and you idly pet his arms, feeling a little shy now that the carnal act is done. 

“You feeling all right?” he says.

You nod, touched by how thoughtful he is. “I’m… I feel amazing,” you say. You nibble your lip, then quietly confess: “I’ve never had sex like that before.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Good sex, you mean?”

You laugh softly. “Yes, actually.”

He chuckles. “My pleasure. Really.” He kisses you gently on the lips, then pushes himself upright and slides off of the bed. 

You watch with some disappointment as he pulls on his trousers. Then he selects a clean scrap of linen from the table and hands it to you. 

You take it with a silent nod, struck once more by his thoughtfulness. You stand up and awkwardly mop yourself clean before putting your nightdress on, and by the time you’re dressed, he’s standing by the door with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his trousers. 

He nods politely. “Thanks again. This was… not what I came for, I promise.” He smiles faintly. “Not at all complaining, though.”

You smile, feeling shy and a little bit sad at the idea of his departure. “You can stay,” you suggest, even though you know it’s too late. “For a drink, or a round of gwent…?”

“Another time, maybe,” he says. “Vesemir’ll be wondering what the hell happened to me.”

You nod and accompany him as he steps outside. He starts putting his armour back on, and as his scarred skin disappears beneath the protective layers of his clothes, you wonder if you’ll ever get a chance to feel the hard heat of his body again.

He adjusts his gloves, then turns to you once more. “See you,” he says. 

“I’ll be here,” you say. Then you frown. “Well, actually, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here.” 

He lifts his eyebrows. “Moving on soon?”

“I just meant from the herbalist’s hut,” you explain. “Tomira was supposed to be back today. We’ll see if she wants me to stay on when she gets back.”

His eyebrows rise higher, then crease into a frown. “Supposed to be back today, huh? Where’d she go?”

“To the east,” you say. “Somewhere near Cackler Bridge, I think.”

His frown deepens, and he grunts. “She might’ve run into some trouble. Heard there’s a nest of nekkers out that way.”

“Oh,” you say worriedly. “Damn it. Um…”

Geralt sighs. “Don’t worry. Gotta go out that way tomorrow. I’ll look for her. What’s she look like?”

“She’s in her thirties,” you say nervously. “She has long black hair, and she wears a Skelligan beaded necklace.”

His expression softens with surprise once more. “A Skelligan necklace? You familiar with Skelligan jewelry?”

You nod. “I lived on Ard Skellige for a while. I worked on a fishing trawler.”

He studies you for a moment, then shakes his head slightly. “Really should have that game of gwent sometime. Sounds like you’ve got stories to tell.”

Geralt of Rivia thinks you have stories worth telling? The idea is absurd, but it makes your chest feel warm all the same.

You smile at him. “I’d love to, honestly.”

He nods, then pats his mare on the rump. “Time to go, Roach,” he says, and he slings himself into the saddle with an unfair degree of grace. 

He looks at you once more. “All right. Until we meet again,” he says.

“Sooner than later, I hope,” you reply.

He smiles — that endearing little smile that crinkles the corners of his coppery eyes. Then, with one last wave, he and Roach take off at a rapid clip.

You watch a little wistfully as Geralt rides away. You go back inside the herbalist’s hut and climb back into bed, and you try not to feel guilty that you and Geralt had sex in your employer’s bed, especially if something bad might have happened to her. 

You sigh and close your eyes. No point worrying about that now; if you’ve learned anything over the past few years, it’s that worrying doesn’t do you much good. Whether Tomira’s fine or not, it doesn’t change your plans: you’ll keep working at the inn and here at Tomira’s hut, and when you have enough coin to move on, you’ll decide whether to do just that, or to stay. 

You roll onto your side, then smile to yourself; you can still smell him on the sheets and on your skin. The sweet and slightly bitter earthy scent of his sweat is both stimulating and comforting, and as you drift off to sleep, you wonder if Geralt will think of you when he goes to sleep. 

You lie in bed in the darkness of Tomira’s empty hut thinking about Geralt, and you wonder if tonight, he’ll be feeling a little less lonely, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping: honestly not sure when this will update! Maybe every couple weeks? We'll see how obsessed I get. 
> 
> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr.](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) Not super active at the moment, but you can reach me there if you fancy. xo


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